


Current Aesthetic

by Prince_Of_The_Night



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Character Death, Character Study, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Space Metaphors, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-18 09:48:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 11,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11871768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prince_Of_The_Night/pseuds/Prince_Of_The_Night
Summary: A collection of short stories - some altered to fit a fandom - that I have written.Will be taken down if I ever collect enough and get the courage to publish my original shorts.





	1. Silver is the Color Of Sad Asters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shion is only 12 years old when he falls in love. Shion is 19 years old when he wakes from a dream about a lovely boy with long, black hair and silver eyes and a sharp tongue.

Shion’s 4 years old the first time it happens. The first time some random person leers down at him and calls him “the perfect little genius”. He’s still a child, and he doesn’t quite know what it means, but it makes him feel queasy nonetheless. His mom swoops in and he’s safe at home again in no time. She grabs his hand and ruffles his hair and tells him to “pay no mind” to what strangers say, and that he’s “her little gift” and that’s all that matters. Soon enough, he’s fallen asleep in her lap and forgets all about it.

 

When Shion turns 6, he starts to realize that not everyone is the same as him. He’s a smart kid, everyone says. He didn’t understand it though, not yet. It’s only when he watches the other children play, when he makes the statement that what everyone is doing isn’t rational, that he begins to understand what he said. The teacher takes him aside, and tries to explain that “everyone’s different and that’s okay”, but Shion’s just not listening. He’s sent home with a stern reprimand that day and he forgets all about it.

 

It’s not until Shion is 8 that he starts to see just how truly  _ imperfect  _ this city of No. 6 truly is. It comes to him when he’s sitting in the park. He watches one old lady sigh to another about how things “just aren’t how they used to be” and how “it used to be better”. The other woman shushes her, like what she said was blasphemy and like she could die for it. He never did see Ms. Thornberry again and he forgets all about it.

 

Shion’s 10 years old when he decides he hates No. 6. He doesn’t anyone this though, not even Safu, who’s been his best - and only - friend for over a year now. It’s one of those simple things he just knows and accepts, like how he doubts he’ll ever fall in love. He’s 10 when he starts to hide the little scrunch of his nose or the downward tilt of his mouth when he looks out over the city. Instead he whispers to himself as he lies in  bed that none of it matters and that someday he’s going to get of this city. This time, he doesn’t forget.

 

He’s just turned 12 the night it happens. He screams with reckless abandon, no care for the city, and it’s all hidden by the storm. He’s not expecting a waterlogged, wounded boy to appear in his room. He doesn’t expect this kid to be a criminal, but hey, that’s how things work right? So he fixes up the boy, who’s probably the same age as him, and all of this is fascinating to him. He can’t even find it in himself to see it as odd, not when there’s the warmth of a hand in his or a body flush against his. This boy - Nezumi he calls himself- is sarcastic and yet so intriguing and Shion finds himself in a little  _ too _ deep. Nezumi’s gone in the morning, but the police are in his place. So Shion lies - says he didn’t think that this ‘criminal’ could have been dangerous at all - but oh, he knew just how serious it had been and how deadly this boy could be. He never, ever forgets this.

 

Shion’s 14 and everyday he drones out the words, a monotonous cycle.  _ I pledge myself to the city.  _ He doesn’t. He doesn’t care, and he sure as hell doesn’t believe it. Instead, he finds himself wondering if he’ll ever see a certain rat again, if he’ll ever truly get out of this damned place. He finds himself lying awake at nights, wondering what happened. There’s something about the same of warm soup and fresh bread that bring him back; cherry cakes only remind him of typhoons and low-lighting and the sharp scent of rubbing alcohol. He doesn’t even think it’s possible for him to forget, not even if he tried.

 

He’s 16 when it happens. It happens so fast that the next he knows, his co-worker is dead, there’s a dead body on the floor, he’s in a car, and this is  **_not_ ** where they were supposed to be going. There’s a flash of light, and then it’s like Nezumi all over again. Except it  _ is  _ Nezumi and he’s grinning at him and Shion’s barely able to keep the bubbling laughter down. Surely, he’s insane for this odd joyous feeling at knowing the city is falling apart, yet he can’t find it in himself to worry. So he forgets that it’s supposed to feel wrong.

 

And then Shion’s dying, and everything hurts  _ so fucking much _ , and he can feel his strength - and his life - slowly drain out of him. Vaguely, he’s aware that Nezumi is shouting, yelling at him, begging him to come back, to not go. And  _ damn _ that’s all that’s all that’s keeping him here; he doesn’t doubt for one second that maybe - just a little - he’s fallen in love with this other boy, not that it matters. And he’s sad, yet utterly resigned to his fate, as he feels the last of all of it fall away, leaving his body. He’s eyes are closing and the world’s fading, but he’s just glad that he kept this promise to himself, that he didn’t die in that wretched city. He’s glad he never forgot the beautiful boy with the silver eyes.

 

But then, he’s not dead, and it’s wonderful. His throat hurts like  _ hell  _ but he’s alive and it’s like flying. He finds himself outside, and the air on his skin is heaven. Then it’s all shattering and he slides to the ground in front of a mirror, because that just  _ can’t  _ be him. He looks like some cadaver brought back to life, pale hair and pale skin and a faint, red scar that spirals down. He’s not sure if he’s screaming, because it sure feels like it. Then Nezumi’s there, like some angel come to help, and then there’s a hand in his hair and fingers tracing the scar down his cheek and neck and he’s shaking, but it’s all okay. It’s okay here, even if city is going to hell in a handbag, and maybe there’s the hopeful 9 year old still lives and worries in the back of Shion’s head, but he can’t really care. He lets himself forget all about the city and what lives there.   
  


Time passes in the way it only can when the sky stretches about you and you’re in love. And oh, Shion is in love. It’s not a big thing, he definitely doesn’t make an ordeal about it, but it’s just something that happens. And whatever, it’s fine. Who knows if it’ll last, or if Nezumi even feels the same way, but for now, just living like this is fine. And then, all of the sudden, it’s not fine. The world seems like it’s ending around him and  _ what happened to Safu?  _ is all that repeats in his mind.

 

There’s nothing he can do, and there’s everything he can do. It’s only in the middle of the night does he decide that it  _ can’t  _ end like this. There’s an odd, serene peace that settles in him with this finality. So he’s got his plans, and he’ll admit that they’re probably stupid, but this is Shion, so it doesn’t even matter. The final day comes, and Shion thinks to himself, _ “This is it,”  _ and maybe it is, but all he know is that he’ll miss Nezumi in an incomprehensible way.

 

So with a mug of tea in hand and a sense of peace and serenity that fills him to the brim, he hands the grey-eyed boy another cup and then he finds himself leaning forward and his lips are pressed to Nezumi’s. The sky erupts and the whole universe shifts, but that’s fine for this infinite moment. Because there’s warm lips on his and this pressure that’s been building subsides. He’s sure it’s it only been a few seconds but it feels like a thousand times longer, so he pulls back and smiles and says “A goodnight kiss,” when Nezumi asks. The lie weighs down his tongue, but then he’s sure he sees Nezumi smile, but maybe not. He can only hope Nezumi doesn’t hate him, and that’s the only thought on his mind as he buries himself under the blankets. He doesn’t even see Nezumi crying, because that he could never forget.

 

And then. And then, it all falls apart. And Nezumi knows that he lied, and now? Now there’s a plan and there’s something to do. Maybe it’s all in Shion’s head, this feeling that he’s so in love, with Nezumi and everything in this small, crazy little world. Before he knows it, they’re tumbling down - literally. They crash and now Shion’s surely screaming and everything and everyone around him is all piled into heaps of dying flesh. The snapping of bones is all he hears and the heady, heavy smell of blood is all around him. But Nezumi is calling out, calling down, to him. So it’s okay; for even just one second, it’s okay.

 

When Shion turns 17, he’s climbing up a pile of broken bodies and he shoots someone in the head, because  _ how dare they.  _ When he turns 17, his best friend is dead and he’s tearing apart and rebuilding governments. The walls are down, and the lines are blurred. And he goes home. Not to his mother, or the bakery, but to Nezumi. He walks back to where he spent a year with a fierce boy and the small little mice. And they dance. Nezumi sweeps Shion up in his arms and they waltz through the dust, painting the dying sky with the picture of love. And their bodies are flush together when Nezumi kisses him and the stars are aligning. It’s only so long, lips firmly pressed into one another’s.

 

It’s a sad ending, when Nezumi moves away. He’s tall and beautiful and Shion knows where this is headed. Yet he doesn’t stop himself when he asks, “A goodbye kiss?” and he feels his heart soar when the soft words float back to him.  _ “A promise.” _

 

Shion is 19 years old when he wakes from a dream about a lovely boy with long, black hair and silver eyes and a sharp tongue. Shion is 19 when he opens up the bakery with his mother and sells fresh bread to the little girl who comes every day and leaves with a shout of “Thank you, Mr. Shion!” When he puts out the fresh cherry cakes that still make him smile. And when the little bell above door dances around with a soft melody and announces a new arrival, Shion is suddenly three years younger. He turns and silver eyes smile back at him. And he’s running forward and jumping and arms are there to catch him. There are lips against his again, and this promise has come full circle. Lips that taste of peppermint and green tea are laughing into his and there’s clapping and cheering that fills the bakery that everyone has come to love. But that’s okay.

 

Because Shion’s Nezumi has come back.


	2. Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some see-the-light-in-everything boys become the-future-holds-no-more-for-me boys, though.  
> ____________________________________________  
> A character study On Lance in the form of poetic prose.
> 
> [not related to my other, multichapter Voltron fic]

He was a backwards snap-back, crop-top wearing, mermaid-and-yoga-maniac kind of boy. A kiss-beautiful-girls, date-pretty-boys kind of boy. A look-into-space-and-find-beauty-in-the-stars kind of boy. A blue-eyed, dark-skinned, freckles-everywhere kind of boy. A silent crier and a sadness liar kind of boy. He was a backwards talking kind of boy, because asking for forgiveness is easier than permission. A friend-saver, a life-lover, who'd give up his life for just one other.

He was a smile-when-you-cry kind of boy. He was a loud joker boy, because he didn't know how to talk. A talk-and-listen kind of boy. A boy who talked-a-lot-but-never-said-much. He was a summer-at-the-beach and singing-to-the-ocean boy. He was a look-down-on-yourself-but-not-others boy. A my-friends-are-more-important-than-me boy.

But in the end, he was a boy. Yes, a staring-into-space-and-missing-home, would-do-anything-to-go-back-to-earth boy. But a boy nonetheless. Not all boys make it home, though. Not all boys live to see the ocean again. Some see-the-light-in-everything boys become the-future-holds-no-more-for-me boys, though.

Not all little boys live.


	3. This Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This again. Really, it was starting to become an addiction. But that hadn't stopped him yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To armyofbees, whom I don't know anything about, except for the fact that they liked my other short original work, "Astrological Inconsistencies" and gave me the feedback that helps keep me writing.

* * *

* * *

In an odd way, it was becoming an addiction. Really, that should have bothered him, should have caused some sort of concern. It didn't. Instead he sat in bored lethargy and plain apathy. It was starting to drive him up the wall. Yet, he couldn't find it in himself to be bothered either. And, undoubtedly, it all began with the arrival of Morgan Jones.

Morgan Jones had appeared in Aiden's Math class in the middle of a quickly chilling October, the frost from the air faintly visible in bubblegum pink hair. He blustered into the room, cheeks rosy, with the quiet declaration that he was a new student. Plopping into the chair next to Aiden, he had proceeded to introduce himself -  _ again  _ \- and tried to make light conversation. Aiden, who not impressed by Morgan's attempts, chose to ignore the boy instead. With no expectations of meeting the pastel-haired boy again. None. And that wouldn’t have bothered him one bit.

Yet fate did not seem to agree. Again and again Aiden found himself standing in front of Morgan. The final straw came in the form of yellow street lights and cigarette smoke and singing streets. There was something enchanting about the glow of dusk and the sweet smell of lavender that drove him out for a walk at 8 o'clock on a Saturday night. And somehow, the stroll found him under a street lamp, burning cigarette cradled in his fingers, and an odd transfer with an old camera.

It wasn't some old, antiqued Polaroid that screamed "I'm trying too hard to be a hipster", but rather a simple camera that was dated a few years back. It's only after a minute of uncomfortable staring that Morgan had spoke. "Can I take your picture?" he had asked softly, his breath turning into fog and in the cool night air. And Aiden remembered like it was only yesterday, how he rolled his neck, all the bones making an audible cracking sound. The way he teasingly blow the smoke of his half-finished cigarette towards his companion. How he had agreed.

It became an strange routine, them meeting up in random parts of the city and the thousand of pictures that followed in next three months. The memory made Aiden smile from where he laid on the couch, draped languidly like he had nothing better to do. So he immersed himself back into memories of the past once again. Because,  _ God _ did it feel like just hours ago was Morgan sitting on Aiden's couch in a shirt too large and falling off his shoulder, cigarette hanging from his lips like it had always belonged there.

He would never - could never - forget the image of Morgan's camera resting on the coffee table, untouched. Or the taste of nicotine on Morgan's lips as their bodies turned to clay, melding into the couch. Or the heat that filters into the air as bodies writhe and sounds that shouldn't be made outside of a bedroom followed the warmth. And he couldn't forget the other quiet, stolen moments that followed in the next three months.

A tragic end, Aiden thought bitterly. Pulling himself out of his reminiscences of the past, he stood. Slowly making his way to the kitchen, he found the cabinet - and the bottle - he had been looking for. One year. One year without Morgan. One year of hell alone and the sounds of screaming and shattering glass making up his constant nightmares and living slow motion play-backs that started up and made him flinch if a door was closed even a little too loudly.

A car crash that had stolen the life of a boy with with hot pink hair and a handful of pills that gently pushed another into the embraces of death. How sad, one would say, that two lovers would end up like his. A tragedy, others would call it.

_ How funny,  _ Aiden thought to himself, as he felt his eyelids grow heavy and his mind foggy,  _ that something so amazing started in such an unexpected way, that the very same thing would end that way. Or maybe i’m just being too fucking sentimental here.  _ And as the last of his life finally drained away, there was still an odd, calm smile on the boy's face.

**[ the end ]**


	4. Shades of Puple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there must two oxen for a single yoke, does the sun not not need the moon?
> 
> ((Klance/Voltron drabble gift for my amazing beta who helps so much on my other Voltron fic!))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this probably confusing, but here, have it anyway. Also, I was eating pocky while I wrote, and somehow I feel like that influenced it? Anyway, please read and review. Now, enjoy!

A touch. A kiss. So many things started this way. Three words:  _I love you._  Promises. So many things follow this way. Good byes and farewells. Broken swears. So many things end this way. How it always saddened the sea.

A touch. A curse. So many things started this way. Six words:  _I wish you were never born._  Hate. So many things followed this way. A kiss with a fist. Screaming. So many things end this way. Life was always cruel to the flames.

He moved, like an ocean breeze. Gentle. Terrifying. As though he came from the deep waves of ocean depths. And he was dressed up in all blue, a dashing prince of the sea.

He fought, like a raging inferno. Fast. Deadly. As though he was spawned from the burning flames of raging fires. And he was dressed up red, a fiery warning from the torches.

They fell from earth and into the sky. Like shooting stars in reverse. Like rain returning to the clouds. And the prince cried  _"Take me home, to where the waters swell!"_  And the warrior demanded  _"Tell me who I am and where I belong!"_  So the all the constellations howled with them, yet the farther they were taken from home.

Soon, an angel in the form of a young queen came to them and said,  _"You are heroes! And you are to save those who cannot save themselves!"_  Yet the prince, despite hearing this, fell to his knees and wept in privacy.  _"I am no hero!"_  the child said. _"I am weak, and I have no use! All I wish for is go back to blues of Earth!"_  But there was no one to hear his prayers, nor those of the fighter.

The orphan whispered to himself, _"Do I belong?"_  And when the lions in the sky cried  ** _yes_** , he asked them _"If I have no home and I have no family, if I am only fire that cannot yield, then would I burn everyone else?"_  And the heavenly beasts held no answer. So the warning in the form of a boy fled to be alone, yet found the prince instead.

He asked him, _"Why do you hide?"_

And the prince swore  _"Here, there is no one to look for me."_

 _"And why do you cry?"_  the candle of a boy asked.

_"Because I have none of the beauty of my home."_

_"Are you not skilled in any way?"_

_"Who is to say what power and place I have is mine? Am I not a seventh ox with no one to share my yoke?"_

_"Surely, if you have power, it must be yours. Do the waves not need waters to carry the boat to shore? Definitely, you have purpose. But for what reason does flame burn?"_  The orphan demanded.

And the prince stood and said with the might of a great typhoon,  _"If the air and waters share that what makes them up, then in the same way surely a candle would burn the same as the stars! And if we are lonesome oxen with no one to share the burden, could this not be our yoke? Could we not create nebulas of our own misfortune, together?"_

 _"You would be my wick?"_  the soldier wondered.

 _"And what use is a burning candle if it does not have a flame?"_  the prince said.

Armies fall. Tides change. Wars are waged and wars are won. Planets crumbled under the stars. There are lilac fires that lick at the base of trees and heather seas wait at the shore. Some battles are lost, and some are not. And yet, a prince and his knight remain. After all, how can the moon shine with out the sun?


	5. The Ambiguity of Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was beautiful in the way many things were not: silently.

He was beautiful in the way many things were not: silently. There was a quiet beauty in everything about him, in everything he did. The way his gaze would lose focus and a tiny, private smile would slip onto his face, as though he was having a pleasant conversation with someone who didn't exist in this realm. The way that he would run his hands through his hair, tugging ever so slightly, when he was stressed. How in the later hours of the night, when the sun was just beginning to die, he would seemingly transform, and his soft words would become even softer, more wondering, more awestruck with everything around him.

It was an elegance that wrapped it's petty fingers around him, clung to him, even through the most menial things. Favored by God, some one had once told him. It was an odd thing to say. And yet, it was true for him. Every little thing seemed perfect for him. Even in his anger, I have never seen blind, violent wrath spill from his lips. Instead of some heedless forest fire that burned out a vicious path, he was an ice sculpture. Tall and proud, cold and cruel, yet so unimaginably graceful.

Perhaps I am only seeing the world around him through rose-colored glasses, but I digress. Perhaps I love him, or perhaps this is only a passing infatuation. Quite honestly, I could not tell you. But perhaps one day, just maybe, hopefully, the future will come to fruition, blossoming from the now present, and the to come past, we can share this beauty he holds. 

For he holds in his hands the ambiguity of beauty, and perhaps - in such a wondrous chance - my heart, even as his shoulders slump forward and his head is bowed with the weight of the world - his world.


	6. This Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How odd, he would think, love truly is.

_How odd_ , he would think,  _love truly is._

It's unrealistic, he would demand upon every show or book or song that portrayed love in what was, to him, such an odd description. No, he would rather stick to much better things, to tales of what could be beyond and what the future  _could_ hold. To him, it made much more sense. It just did, plain as day. And in his head, he had formed the crystal clear thought that love - at least that in a romantic sense - was some silly and trivial thing that only hopeless romantics poured their lonely hearts out to.

Yet, he did not know when this view changed. It was certainly not when he met the girl with the blank, blue stare that seemed to think in such similar ways. He sincerely doubted it had anything to do with arriving in a new school, or the boy who punched him in the nose, only to become friends with him. He would be stupid to believe it was because of the fiery, Germanic girl who seemed intent on making sure he knew he was inferior. And it just simply couldn't be the kind, pale-haired boy who showed up not too long ago and was the kindest to him that he had yet to experience. That would make no sense. Except, it did.

That boy, all pale hair and long limbs and snowy skin that was smooth like ice, and just as cold, had simply changed something in him. Or maybe, he just changed the world. It would make sense, with the way he charged into this new life, taking it in stride, and wrapping it all up in a bubble of peace. It would make sense, because he was both there and not, an ephemeral beauty who shifted between realities and probabilities, who could shatter the view of the whole world one moment and rebuild it instantaneously. He was, in the simplest of ways, an ineffable charm laced with insouciance.

And perhaps he was over thinking it, and dwelling on barely lingering touches just a little too long. Maybe he had since long stopped seeing the world around him in a realistic light, and perhaps this was all in his head. A dream that he would wake from, only to find himself back on the train, headed to a father who didn't love him and a world he didn't fit. But for now, if he was lucky - though he almost never was - he could stay in this moment, arms holding him, soft music playing, and the distinct scent of lavender detergent. 


	7. Astrological Inconsistencies

_Useless._ That's what they called him. He was. He couldn't do anything right. They were right. He  _was_ useless. The only thing he was good for was making a fool of himself. Why else would his father leave him? How could his father ever love a child who could never do anything? He was some hovering asteroid that barreled in and did nothing but mess everything up. The only one he could ever help was his mother. Look where that lead.

_Unneeded._ That's what he was. He couldn't help people like he was supposed to. He wasn't helping, he was hurting. His friend, his only friend - but who could even say that it wasn't just out of pity - had been almost  _killed_ because of him. Not like he did anything about it. Maybe he really was unneeded, so apathetic to those near him. As uncaring to the world as the stars were. The only one who needed him was his mother. But where was she now?

_Idiot._ That's what his father called him. It made sense. His grades weren't that bad, really, but they could be so much better. He always did stupid things that messed things up for everyone. Why did he even come? He was no better than some pebble floating in a far off cluster of space debris way out past the solar system. The only person who'd disagree was his mother. Why couldn't she be here too?

_You think you're special and all that, but you're not._ That's what the red-headed girl told him as she passed by in the halls. She was right, how could she not be. He  _wasn't_ special.  _Childish._ The dull, blue-eyed girl told him. She was also right. They always were. Only his mother would disagree. Not that she could do that for him anymore.

_Beautiful._ That's what the boy called him, the boy who was snowy and white, a child's fairy tale brought to life. He was all long limbs and lavender lotion, vanilla sugar chapstick and pale eyelashes. And it was odd, so mind-boggling so, when he looked at such an unwanted, unneeded boy and said he was beautiful, as though dusty browns and flat, greyish-blue hues were more lovely than this angel's - for that's certainly what he was, some heavenly being beyond human comprehension - whites and greys and crimsons.

_Kind. Good._ That's what that angel who simply could not exist called him. He called him  _kind,_ and  _good,_ and  _beautiful,_ all while they sat alone, in a room away from everyone. He grabbed his hands and promised him " _soon"._

And, oh, he had no clue what it meant, but it was a promise and promises meant there would be more. And if he could see this alabaster beauty even just once more, then maybe he could have one thing that was right in his life, no matter how short it was.

But no, he never was lucky was he? He could hear the gods laughing from the skies at him already. Why would he hope for something that was  _impossible_  for someone like him. And yet, as he lay in the grass, hand in hand, he couldn't help but wonder if they could fall into the sky, constellations yet to be wished upon, if maybe, perhaps the pearly vision beside him was some shooting star that fell all the way to Earth.

And as they settled down and let the Earth swallow them up into her bosom, he was acutely aware of the warmth between them, and then - all of the sudden -  the ground shook beneath them, rumbling and crooning into the sky. But no, that wasn't it. Rather he was more aware of soft lips on his, brown sugar and coffee creamer all around him, of a hand in his hair and one on his hip,of wet mouths and no discomfort, of a certain  _rightness_  that just made sense. 

Of more unspoken promises, and of hushed words he never expected to hear, did not deserve to hear.

_I love you._


	8. Butterfly Effect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short story I wanted to write after reading the prompt: describe the unexpected things a person learns after someone close to them dies.

Will Barring has been my best friend since kindergarten. But I guess I can't say that anymore. Let me try again:  
Will Barring _wa_ s my best friend from kindergarten all the way to last summer. What happened last summer? Simple. Will died. Murdered. _We_ _believe_ _foul_ _play_ _was_ _involved_ _,_ the police said. But I don't care about that.

Will was my best friend, I said that. But it was more than that. We were brothers, almost. I knew everything about him. Or at least, I thought I did. Maybe I did, maybe I don't really know anything. Here's the thing though: I'm about 86% sure he knew he was going to die. How do know (or think I know), you ask?

Because one week after he died a package showed up on my doorstep, my name branded across it, and his in the return address. I didn't open it until last month though. Inside was a book titled _**THE**_ _ **BOOK**_ _ **OF**_ _ **THINGS**_ _ **WILL**_ _ **BARRING**_ _ **NEVER**_ _ **TOLD**_ _ **ANYONE**_ _._ And sure enough, inside it was like a diary. But not quite. Like a letter given to me in diary form. Did I read it? Yep. But here's the thing: I know I'm next now. So here we are. The book you are currently reading is my own now. _**THE**_ _ **BIG**_ _ **BOOK**_ _ **OF**_ _ **SECRETS**_ _ **ANDREW**_ _ **BELL**_ _ **KEPT**_ _ **SECRET**_ _ **.**_

I hope you read this. I hope everyone reads it. So they know. It never has to happen again. Good luck. And be careful, because you might have just entered your name into the most dangerous game there is: the truth.

 

_________________________  
_Excerpts from_ ** _THE_** ** _BOOK_** ** _OF_** ** _THINGS_** ** _WILL_** ** _BARRING_** ** _NEVER_** ** _TOLD_** ** _ANYONE._**


	9. Invisible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was a foggy feeling in his head that pushed him to the brink and now here in the dark he was left to question if he was even alone in the hazy landmine field of his thoughts."
> 
> ~~~~~  
> Hey, I'm back with another short story/one shot based around a book I've yet to write. This one actually was half written by the time I found it, and I don't remember writing the first half. Written back in June.

It, the terrible, unnamable thing, always began like this: he was in a dark room and he couldn't breathe. No, that wasn't it. Perhaps he just couldn't see things right. No, that didn't make sense either. Nothing did really. Everything just felt... How did it feel? Numb? Dull? Like the emotional equivalent of having a cold that forced you to breathe through your mouth and left it feeling dry and thick? Honestly? He couldn't even tell anymore.

_Are you alright?_ a pretty girl to his left asked. Where was he again? School? Yes, that seemed right. Who was the girl though?  **Lillia** , his mind supplied. Who was she again? What did she mean to him?  **She's your friend, your best friend,** his mind offered to him. Her eyes were pretty, green. Very green. Very, very, really and truly green. Were eyes that green even possible? He didn't know.

_I'm fine. Just thinking is all._ He replied easy enough. His mouth moved by itself, speaking while his mind drowned in molasses. It felt like he was... He was what? An outside viewer? That fit. Sort of. He smiled at the girl - at Lillia. Vacantly? Perhaps. He didn't know.  _I'm tired. I'm going to take a rest now._

Did that sound okay? What was okay? He turned and left anyway. It was like he was in his mind. Trapped, maybe? He was. But how did he say that? He wasn't him - not really. His body crawled into his bed. (When had he gotten there? Wasn't he just at school?)  _He_ crawled further into his mind. He sat. His memories played like a movie. He wasn't him.

That was a rather odd thing. Wasn't it? Did he exist? Who was he? He had questions. A lot of them. But no answers. He was tired? Unsure. It was like autopilot. What was that again? He didn't know. Did he even know anything? Yes, he knew something. Vaguely. Possible. Maybe not? He didn't know.  _I'm fine,_ he told himself. Or was it the room? Perhaps the wall to his left. It seemed a little worried. His hands shook? But he didn't know why. How? Was that possible? He didn't know.

Maybe in the morning he would? Mornings were good. Right? He was unsure. But for now? He was a shell. An empty shell. But a husk nonetheless. He was invisible?  _ **Invisible** , _his mind agreed and spoke. Maybe he did too? He didn't know. But yes. He was just that.

Invisible.

A sharp trill leapt into the room. Where was it coming from? He didn't know? Oh, wait! He  _did_ know! It was coming from his...... pocket? Why?  **Phone** , the helpful little voice in his head told him. It was..... funny? Maybe? That the only coherent part of him wasn't even him.

Woah. Where had that thought come from? Was it really possible it wasn't him? He had no clue.  **The phone's still going off. Answer it.** Oh. That's right, it was! He pulled the glass box out of his pocket and stared blankly at the name that he didn't recognize before pressing the button and slowly bringing the object to his ear.

_Hello?_ he questioned, his voice far off and floaty to him. Maybe even to whoever was on the other side of the device. But once again, it was like he was on autopilot and his body was functioning without  _him._ Was that possible? Does that happen to other people too? He couldn't tell. But then again, he still had that thought in his buzzy mind that maybe he didn't know anything.

_Oi, where the hell are you? Lillia said you just ran out of class. You better have a damn good reason, Williams,_ the voice growled out to him. For a moment, he recalled cobalt eyes and dark hair before the image fled once again. What was the name of his caller again? He forgot.

_Hmm? Yeah. yeah, whatever,_ he replied, having no control over his own body. Was it even his body? Unsure. Wait, was the person still talking? He was.

_Listen here, you idiot. I couldn't care less about whatever excuse you have, but I to God if you don't-_ he hung up and closed the phone. He didn't really feel like listening anymore.

_Maybe... maybe, I'll just go to sleep now?_ He asked the wall, which did not respond. Did he even expect it too? Well, no. Not really, at least.  _Yeah... Yeah that sounds like a good idea,_ he muttered as he tossed the phone somewhere and slunk beneath the covers once again.

A nap wouldn't hurt would it? No, he didn't think so. But then again, most of his thoughts were only half-formed. And who's to say that they're really his anyway?


	10. Scattered Moths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A spoken word about a few things that won't get off my mind tonight.

To the girl who live down the street from me in house with all the bushes outside it, and who was brown eyes, brown hair, brown skin: it was summer. It was warm, and all the leaves on the trees were perfectly green, and we were all melting in our shorts and tank tops. You and the other girls were on the other side of the street, standing on the sidewalk, and I was on grass of my front yard, walking forward when you stopped me. You told me a secret, and hugged me. But one by one, like toy soldiers marching to a battlefield, the other girls came forward. You were back across the asphalt and you were smiling, even as though your touch lingered on me, and choked all the air out of my lungs. And these pretty girls who I had known all my life told me the same things and laughed and walked away. And when you all left the cement to head for the park, and I was stood frozen, fused to the grass next to my driveway, all I could smell was burnt almond you. It was summer.

To the girl with the abusive stepfather who moved away just after fourth grade: it was morning recess. We were walking around the track because it was the only way we could think of to spend the 30 minutes of morning chill. We were talking, and I was angry about your mother’s boyfriend, and you were almost crying because he had threatened to kill your dog. You taught me how to make hand-crocheted necklaces that I still make to this day, and it didn’t matter to you that no one else liked me, liked us. We must have walked a mile on the tarmac track that lined the soccer fields. You were taller than me, and we joked about it endlessly. It was morning recess. 

To the girl with the short hair who was new to my fifth grade class: it was December, but it hadn’t snowed. I don’t know how it happened, but you appeared in our lives and built a nest there like a parasite would. ‘The Weirdo Club’ was an inside joke that you wanted in on. And you laid on the ground for 5 minutes with your eyes closed and a jacket thrown over your head like you didn’t think we wouldn’t run and hide by the fence. But somehow our group of three became four in accommodation to your tallness. I knew you didn’t like me, and you weren’t there that day, but you managed to convince them. It was sudden - and a shock - but I wasn’t surprised. It was like a dull, hot blade to gut, and twisted. I had a bus to catch and my lips were numb and my eyes were too wide with disbelief to cry, but it suddenly felt a lot colder. It was December, but it hadn’t snowed.

To everyone who’s watched, but hasn’t done anything: it’s been three years of quiet hell. Maybe we were close, or maybe you were just the girl I would occasionally hug in the hallway in 7th grade because we were close 6th. Maybe you were my anger management group with my best friend who met every Thursday at lunch in 6th grade. You could be the counselor who had to take me to the nurse, then you office, then to an unused room for seventh period because I had such a huge breakdown in the last week of 8th grade. You might have been my friends who understood what I meant when I said that I so causally hated myself to the point that is was just a constant matter of fact to life and who didn’t say there was something incredibly wrong with me. It’s been three years of quiet hell.

To my future self: I am hopeful. I hope that someday you’ll get yourself out of the diamond cage chained to the bottom of the Marianas Trench and reached your goal of the peak of Everest. That your flimsy, plastic spork was traded for tools better equipped to this hellish void. I hope that your lips aren’t as scarred from pulling the skin off or that your fingertips don’t bleed as much from picking. That you have less band-aids strapped to your nails. That you can look in the mirror and love yourself, not think “what a piece of shit”. That your smile is more real. That I get to become you one day. To my future self: I am hopeful.

 


	11. This Is It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the roaring 1920's and Aleksander Ilyich has been given the chance to go back and salvage his friendship (turned crush). Of course, he just has to take the offer.

_This is it_ , he thinks. He stands in the clock tower, looking out over the city. Smoke from coal and steam engines floats over the skyline, entwining with the brilliant architecture, making it seem as though the buildings were all on fire. His name is Aleksander Ilyich and he built this city. He wishes he hadn’t; not this way.

“Are you sure?” he asks the man - closer to a boy, really - next to him.

“Yes,” Erin of The Sky says. Aleksander takes a closer look at him. The boy could be 19 or 1,900 million years old and it wouldn’t make a difference. He was magic all the same.

Aleksander checks his watch: 11:49 December 31. His 21st birthday. He sighs. It’s likely he’ll never see a speakeasy again, likely there’ll be no more chances to knock down high hats, likely there’ll be no more Joe Brooks to flirt with. The height of the world, peak of America, he had said to that live wire James Baker. He missed Jamie most of all.

“Are you sure, Mr. Ilyich?” the Sky Son asks him as midnight quickly approaches.

“I’m sure. I have to save him,” he says out loud. Love of my life, he says in his head. He’s aware what this could mean for him, for the world. That Aleksander would be trapped in the past. Though, trapped wasn’t the right word. He would stay and live out the world he had changed, no longer here in this one. He was just fine with that.

It was why he was doing this.

Closing his eyes, Aleksander took in a deep breath, runs his hand through his blond hair. He felt hands rest on his shoulders and his awareness of the world started to dim. The clock strikes midnight and the tower rings with power. Aleksander falls, pushed back into the past.

* * *

 

When he opens his eyes, he’s 18 again. No longer Aleksander the business man, just Alek. He’s in Jamie’s drawing room, right where the fight happened. Right when it happened.

Across from him stands James Baker in all his glory, same blue eyes, same sweet cola hair, same long pretty stilts. And the anger. The anger at Aleksander, at himself, is still there. And (not so) suddenly, Aleksander remembers that this is the fight that broke them.

“I can’t believe that you, of all people, are being so stiff on this!” Jamie not quite shouts.

( _“Sounds to me like you’re just stuck on some moll,” he had said, jealous._ )

“You got me all wet, Jamie. I don’t want to see you hurt by some bent drugstore cowboy,” he says now, voice pleading.

( _“Oh please, that’s bushwa. Tell me the truth Alek!”_ )

Some of the melts off Jamie’s face, leaving him looking sad and a little bit annoyed. “Oh Alek,” he says with a small shake of his head. Alek’s heart thumps painfully.

( _Aleksander had thundered, “Me? You’re the one who stares at bubs on every bug-eyed Betty in the street.” That hadn’t been true, he knew that._ )

“You carry a torch for anyone? That why you wanna go?” Alek asks.

“That’s not why I wanna go, Alek.”

“She the cat’s meow?”

Jamie throws up his hands in exasperation, “Alright! Maybe I do like someone. A real darb, lovely little bird. But that’s not why I wanna go!”

( _“Get out! You ain’t no big six and it’s none of your beeswax! I swear, Aleksander. I ever see your face again and I’ll hand you to a bull over moonshine!” Jamie had almost screamed. Aleksander had left, had never seen Jamie till his funeral barely a year over._ )

“I wanna go and have a drink with my best friend. Maybe give that sap who wants to be a fly boy I’m goofy for cash.” Jamie starts to laugh and Alek finds himself joining in.

“Who’s the sap?” he asks his owl of a friend.

“The one in front of me,” Jamie says, like it was clear as day.

Alek smiles all the way to the speakeasy. He could live with this now. _This is it_ , he thinks. And now, he’s happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place in the 1920’s. Here’s what the 20’s slang means:
> 
> Speakeasy - A bar selling illegal liquor  
> High hats - A snob  
> Joe Brooks - A well dressed man  
> Sweet cola [hair] - a “soft black” or dark brown  
> Stilts - Legs  
> Stuck on - Having a crush on  
> Moll - A gangster’s girl  
> All Wet- Wrong  
> Bent - Drunk  
> Drugstore Cowboy-  
> Bushwa - Bull, lies  
> Bubs - A woman’s chest  
> Bug-Eyed Betty - An unattractive girl  
> Carry a Torch - To have a crush on someone  
> Cat’s Meow - Great  
> Darb - A great person or thing  
> Bird - General term for a man or woman  
> Big Six - A Strong Man  
> Beeswax - Business  
> Bull - A law-enforcement official  
> Moonshine - Homemade whiskey (during the Prohibition Era, the 1920’s, alcohol was illegal  
> Sap - A fool, an idiot  
> Fly Boy - A glamorous term for an aviator  
> Goofy - In love  
> Cash - A kiss


	12. a golden night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was allowed one golden night a year; nothing more, nothing less.

It went this way, he supposed: Luke was allowed one happy thing, one okay night, a year. A golden night. Yes, that was it.  _This_  was it.

Golden things came in the form of dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin, absolutely inhuman beauty. Noah. It was a beautiful name.  _Noah, Noah, Noah._  Luke loved the sound of it. It was pure and soft and innocent. It was legs thrown over hips, warm lips, hands flat on his back, coffee and vanilla, kisses too indecent for anywhere but the bedroom.

It was golden.

It didn’t last.

Not fair. It wasn’t fair. At least, that’s what Luke thought. Empty room, empty heart, empty head. Even the sunlight filtering felt empty. Not golden and warm. No. White and harsh and cruel and  _empty_. Empty, empty, empty, empty, empty. It was all he felt.

No. Angry. He felt angry. Tear the curtains from the window, punch the wall, slam the door, shatter the vase angry. He didn’t do any of it. He lay in bed, satin and silk and bedsheets pooling around his waist.

He stood and took a shower at some point. Scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until his flesh was red and raw and sore. Luke didn’t care; he felt too muddied, too dirty. It burned. Not his skin, not his eyes. His heart. His  _soul_. Because he knew that hot liquid on his face wasn’t just the water streaming over him.

He screamed. Screamed and screamed and screamed. Screamed until his throat was raw and so was his soul.

He called Abby and she was there too soon and his everything was drip-dripping down the sink drain. Water slid and plopped off his hair and tears fell from the tip of his nose. But Abby was there and her hands were soothing and he cried and cried.

He didn’t care. Neither did she. And the world was okay.

Or - it would be okay soon.

Maybe Luke could only have one golden night and maybe a uranium day would always follow. But he promised to himself, Abby, God - everyone - that one day, all his days would be platinum.

And so, he waited.


	13. Take The Blame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Falling in love feels like a drag from his cigarette. But there's something about the blonde that intrigues him. Even when their carefully crafted plans for the future start to crumble and fall apart. He can't even regret it. Not when it's all been for the stupid sake of goddamned love. Not even then. Rated T with caution, go carefully, borders on M.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 3817

When Ethan met Jonas for the first time, it was the middle of the night and Ethan wasn’t even that drunk. Ethan wasn’t completely sure how he ended up in the park, and he wasn’t sure if it was tobacco or something else in his pipe either. The only thing he knew for sure was that he felt a little fuzzy around the edges and that there was someone else in the park.

He thought it was a woman at first, with the longest hair he’d ever seen. He blinked, took another long drag of whatever it was he was smoking, and pondered how he never realized just how nice blue eyes looked with blonde hair until then. There were braids in the blonde’s hair (Ethan couldn’t tell if they were a chick or not, but he found them so goddamn beautiful anyway), he noticed as they left the park.

It made Ethan want to forget everything about that night.

\-- -- --

The second time he met Jonas, it wasn’t in a drugged haze and he remembered it better. There was a mole under Jonas’ left eye, but the rest of his pale skin was flawless.  (And if Ethan wanted to know just what shade of red he turned, he couldn’t be blamed.) Those blue eyes suddenly looked a lot less dazzling as they narrowed, Jonas scowled at Ethan.

He was smoking again, but the sharp, bitter taste that coated his tongue was definitely tobacco this time. Ethan could see where he was going wrong, because  _ yes _ , he was smoking on school grounds and  _ yes _ , that was illegal and he could get it expelled for it. He grinned despite it, just to rile Jonas up a little more. He’d admit, he liked something about how the blonde boy squirmed.

“That’s against school rules,” Jonas said, half hiss and half growl that was more heated-thought-inspiring than intimidating.

Ethan laughed when Jonas pulled the cigarette from his mouth and ground it underneath the toe of a shoe that definitely had some kind of heel to it. He said, “That’s half the fun.”

The glare Jonas tossed him was withering and he poked a finger into the other’s chest. “You’re underage, it’s illegal.”

“That’s the thing sweetheart,” Ethan said, and blew the last of the smoke from his lungs into Jonas’ face. He watched as he fell a step back and coughed, eyes watering. He wanted to know how blue those eyes would be when he was happy. Instead, he called to Jonas as he walked away, “No one gives a fuck!”

Ethan watched how Jonas’ hips swung from side to side when he walked and wondered if he heard the  _ about me _ or not.

(He made the connection about blonde hair, which was significantly shorter but still waved in a braid.)

\-- -- --

Ethan watched Jonas, from time to time. He didn’t like to be touched, he noticed, and he caught the eye of the whole school quickly enough. There was something about Jonas, like he was above everyone else. Not superior, but more like he floated above drama and rumors, like they didn’t reach him out of sheer willpower.

They got paired up for a science projects two weeks after the cigarette incident. When the day was over, Ethan leaned over Jonas’ desk and made the plans for when they’d work. His house, on Saturday, he had declared and Jonas went with it. Ethan left the room and he could feel Jonas’ gaze boring into his back. Yeah, he’d noticed the looks Jonas snuck, but he couldn’t hold it against him, he was gorgeous and he’d had his own looks at a certain pretty blonde anyway.

As expected, Jonas showed up on his doorstep at exactly 2:15 pm, Ethan almost laughed. His mother had gone out and Cana wandered about freely. Jonas shuffled past him into the room; he smelled like witch hazel, Ethan noticed. And when he let out a stifled yelp when Cana slithered over his toes to wind around Ethan's ankle, he really did laugh.

“It’s fine,” Ethan said and waved a hand carelessly. He picked up the snake, who gladly wrapped around his forearm. “Cana’s completely trained, so he won’t hurt you.”

Jonas huffed and bitterly muttered, “Snakes.” Ethan laughed again, loud and worry-free.

Maybe Jonas wasn’t so bad, he thought. They got to work on the assignment, something about watersheds and model recreations, quickly enough. Time passed quickly and before Ethan knew it, they were making plans to meet up again and Jonas was getting ready to leave. Cana softly butted her head against Jonas’ arm. “Aw,” Ethan cooed sweetly, “I think she likes you.”

Jonas’ scowled at him and his teasing, but Ethan could tell he wasn’t really upset. The blonde wasn’t horrible, he had decided, and he could see what was attractive about him. Good god, did he see it.

“You’re an asshole,” Jonas said, “but you’re not unbearable.” He left.

Ethan couldn’t help but agree.

\-- -- -- 

Jonas cried the first time they kissed.

They had been sitting in Jonas’ room, watching a movie on his laptop. They were half way through some true crime investigative show when Jonas reached forward and paused it. He looked at Ethan for a minute before asking, “How is your hair so pale?”  _ When you’re not _ , Jonas didn’t say but Ethan heard it anyway.

“I dye it.” Jonas continued to stare at him, his head tilted like he was a pause to be solved. “What, is something wrong?”

“Oh,” the blonde blinked, “no, I was just thinking. We don’t really know each other, do we?”

“I guess? You want to play 20 questions, or some shit?”

“Sure, why not.” Ethan laughed, he hadn’t honestly expected the other to answer. It made his heart race in the way it did when his sister raced down the highway at unholy speeds with the windows down. Ethan lay back on Jonas’ bed. Their fingers brushed and he basked in what months of closeness had given him, to be able to have these small touches. He was so far gone, it was almost funny.

Ethan waved a hand and let Jonas prattle on. “What’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

“My sister on her graduation day. What’s the dumbest thing you’ve done that actually turned out pretty well?”

“Half of everything I’ve cooked.” Jonas looked towards Ethan again, and spoke quietly. “Have you ever fallen in love with someone?”

He shrugged, ignoring the flutter of panic in his heart. “Yeah, sure. Ever kissed anyone?” He didn’t know why he asked; he shouldn’t have. Jonas shook his head.  _ I’d kiss you _ , Ethan thought and didn’t say.

He didn’t expect Jonas to start crying. His eyes watered up and his breathing shuddered, the laptop pushed aside, forgotten. “It’s so,” he said, voice muffled and thick, “so  _ dishonest _ .” The look he gave Ethan felt like someone was strangling him. He wasn’t expecting Jonas to wrap his hands in the front of his shirt. He wanted to tell him to stop, wanted to push him away. But Ethan was helpless in the face of his best friend.

“Jonas. Jonas, please,” Ethan said. Jonas kissed him, his cheeks turning damp with the blonde’s tears. He pushed himself back. “Jonas, please. Please stop.”

The blonde dissolved into sobs, shaking Ethan by his shirt. Slowly, as if not to startle a cornered animal, he wrapped his arms around Jonas. He cried, harder and harder for what felt like hours.

“I don’t want to die,” Jonas whispered, hoarse, “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. Dammit, Ethan, I don’t want to.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let me pretend. Please, just let me pretend.” He kissed Ethan again, and this time he let him.

\-- -- --

Jonas explained everything a week later. “I’m sick,” he said and toed the ground beneath the bench. “I’m not going to live probably. It killed my sister. She was everything, helped raise me and everything.”

Ethan tapped his thumb against Jonas’ wrist. A reminder that he was there. “She was everything?” he asked.

“Almost,” Jonas laughed, the air a little lighter. “I live with my brother now. Nathan. I like him.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah, he works with kids, I think. There was one, this little girl. She was a refugee and absolutely tiny. Really quiet. She loved Nathan though. We’d go to the park with her, and she’d start talking about how she wanted to go home one day, how beautiful it was before slavers took her away. And then there was a couple, teen parents. They’d ask for advice and stuff. I,” he paused and shot a look at Ethan. He bumped their shoulders. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

Ethan said, “Yeah. But I like it, it’s cute.” He laughed and Jonas blushed. “Go on, keep talking.”

“Okay, well. That couple, I remember the first time they came over. One of them was crying. She was probably the same age we are now. It’s been maybe seven years since I met them. They’ve got a great kid though. But Nathan, he’s great, really great. He thinks I’ll get better.”

“Do you think you’ll get better?” Ethan asked, Jonas leaning into him.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I even could.”

“If you did get better, what would you do?”

“I want a family,” Jonas said. He looked up at Ethan and bit his lip. “I should apologize for Thursday, it was really horrible of me.”

Ethan sighed, fiddled with the end of Jonas’ braid, and lit a cigarette. It  _ hadn’t _ been right, he knew. He ignored the burning feeling and focused instead on the acrid taste of his cigarette. “It’s fine.” He let the buzz in his stomach of  _ why why why _ fade into the background.

“Do you ever want to get married?” Jonas asked, quickly rushing to reiterate at the look Ethan shot him. “I mean, you said you’ve fallen in love right? So would you ever think about getting married?”

“Maybe. What about you? Got anyone you’re crushing on.”

Jonas blushed again. “Well, kinda. But really, sorry for just kissing you like that.”

“I didn’t mind.”

“Ethan!” Jonas pushed his shoulder, looking absolutely scandalized. Ethan rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be a brat,” he said. Jonas kissed him again.

\-- -- --

The next three months passed by quickly. There was a part of Ethan that was stupidly thrilled at being able to kiss Jonas. School ended and summer came. It was a summer night that started the shatter of their lives. Ethan remembered it in a kind of lust-drunk haze, but the night was clear enough.

Jonas lay next to Ethan on his bed. He trailed a hand along the taller’s arm. “What do you want to do? When we’re older, I mean.”

“I want to be a doctor,” Ethan said with conviction. The blonde chuckled. “I’m serious. I’ve always wanted to help people. Like my mom.” He brushed back the hair falling in Jonas’ face. “Or you,” he said.

“I’m sure you’ll make a great doctor,” Jonas said with a small laugh.

“Brat.” He kissed Ethan. They’d made out before, of course, but with long, blonde tangled around his fingers and Jonas gripping his hips, it felt new and excitingly dangerous. Jonas pushed as close to Ethan as he could, before he pulled back and kissed along his jawline.

Ethan tugged on Jonas’ hair and let his hands roam. He bit the blonde’s lip, the moan muffled by his mouth making him far too happy. “We could go further,” he murmured in Jonas’ ear, pushed the hem of his shirt away to run his fingers along his hips.

“We could.” Jonas rolled them over so he was sitting on Ethan. He pulled his shirt over his head and placed darker hands on his waist. He said, “Kiss me.” Ethan did.

It went like that for a while, kissing and losing shirts, until Ethan was on top nipping at Jonas’ shoulder. It was heavy breathing and kissing and lustful, heavy moaning. Jonas ground his hips into Ethan, turned on further by the sounds and faces coming from his boyfriend. One hand dipped past the waist of Ethan's jeans, and the other curled down to his own thighs. He pulled Ethan forward and said, “Fuck me.”

“That’s hot,” he said as he leaned forward. Ethan kissed him again, but Jonas growled, low and heated.

“I swear to God,” he said, his voice sending a shudder down Ethan's spine, “if you don’t fuck me right now, I’m leaving.” Ethan gave in to the heat, enjoying the sounds of his boyfriend, the sensations of nails on his back and Jonas around him. The warmth and ecstasy of final moments and bliss that they rode out and Jonas’ voice loud and forever etched into Ethan's mind.

\-- -- --

The consequences came a month later. The first person Ethan called, with Jonas tucked under his arm, was his uncle Peter. The dial tone filled the room and dug into Ethan's mind. He felt more than heard Jonas sobbing into his shoulder, the phone on speaker driving home the paranoia and fear.

“Ethan! It’s been so long, how are you doing?” Peter asked happily.

“I’m not,” his voice cracked and he winced, “I’m not doing so well. It’s… I’ve gotten into a bit trouble.”

Ethan could hear his frown. “What did you do? Ethan? Tell me.”

“Can we talk to you in person? In an hour or so. I don’t think it’s something that should be talked about over the phone.”

“Okay,” Peter said slowly. “At that coffee place you like?”

Ethan ran a hand along Jonas’ arm and sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, I think that’ll work.” He hung up and folded Jonas closer against him. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, “I’m so, so sorry, Jonas. We’re going to be okay.”

The blonde hugged him tightly. Even though he was muffled by Ethan's chest, he was well heard. “What are we going to do? What are we going to tell your parents? Nathan?” He paused. “I’m so scared.”

“I know.”

An hour later, Ethan tapped his toe anxiously while Jonas sipped his coffee, a thin veneer of calm. Peter pushed his way through the door and saw them. He quickly came over and sat down. “Ethan?” he said. “What’s the problem?”

“This is my boyfriend,” Ethan said, “Jonas.” Jonas clutched his hand and took another sip of his coffee. He could see his boyfriend struggling to remain his composure.

Peter frowned. “Ethan, I don’t see the problem here?”

Jonas cleared his throat, clutched to Ethan like a life line, and said “I’m sorry if it’s an intrusion, but I think what Ethan is trying to say is that I’m like you.”

Peter blinked and his eyes widened. He swore under his breath, “You’re only seventeen. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

“I know. Fuck, I know, Peter.” Ethan put his head in his hands and sighed heavily. Jonas hooked their ankles. “It was heat of the moment. We weren’t thinking. What do you expect me to say?” he asked tiredly.

Peter sighed and fiddled with the edge of his keffiyeh. He said, “I know. Look, I have some friends you can talk to and our do is always open.” Ethan smiled weakly up at him, and he gladly returned the gesture. “You have a couple options and if things don’t work out with your families, we’ll try to help. I know what it’s like. What do you guys want to do?”

Jonas responded quickly, his grip tight on Ethan's wrist. “I want to keep it,” he said. His boyfriend rubbed slow circles in his back.

“I do, too.”

Peter rubbed the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “Talk to your families first. We’ll go from there.” He stood to leave. “My door is always open to you, Ethan, and that includes Jonas and your child.”

Ethan dropped his head back into his hands and shuddered out a breath. “I’m so sorry I’ve fucked everything up,” he said, voice thick.

Jonas set his hand on his back. “We’ll be okay though, remember?”

\-- -- --

Telling Ethan's family went easier than either of them were expecting. Sure, there were tears and his aunt screamed at him a good five minutes, but it eventually ended in his mother wrapping Jonas up in her arms. Sobbing, she had promised him that he was family now, that the Carmen family would always have a place for them and their child. By the time they climbed back into Ethan's car, Jonas was still wiping tears off his cheeks.

“So we’re doing this,” Ethan asked, hands tight on the steering wheel. Something about telling Nathan rattled him to his bones, the idea more terrifying than having to coming out to his family, introduce his boyfriend, then promptly tell them that he’d accidentally knocked up said boyfriend. God, he was an absolute wreck of nerves.

“Yeah,” Jonas said, “Yeah, we are.” He was quiet for a moment before admitting, “I’m terrified.”

“I am too.” Ethan started up the car, and pulled out of the driveway. He’d never even met Nathan before, didn’t know what the man was like at all. A mildly terrifying thought struck him. Staring at the red light in front of them, he asked, “Jonas, does he even know we’re dating?”

The wheeze from his boyfriend was less of a strangled laugh, and more of a whoosh of air that squeaked slightly. “He knows. He’s always asking to meet you. He thought you broke my heart or something, when I first found out. He was so angry, and I couldn’t tell him. I just said I was feeling dysphoric or something. I don’t even know anymore.” Jonas threw his arm over his face with a heavy sigh. “I’m fucking terrified.”

“Can you move your arm,” Ethan said, “you’re blocking my mirror and I need to drive.” Jonas laughed properly this time and even Ethan cracked a smile.

It was early evening when they stood in front of the apartment door, staring at the bronze number. Ethan took a deep breath and Jonas unlocked the door, pushing it open. They entered and the first thing Ethan saw was a family photo. It was at least a couple years old, because the Jonas in the picture was younger, 13 or 14. He looked largely the same, but Ethan had the urge to laugh at the dangling red earrings he wore, so different from the small diamond studs he wore now.

There was a girl to his right with hair so long it brushed the back of her thighs. Even though she was thin and her eyes had dark bags under them as she obviously suffered from the illness that took her, she looked bright and happy. Her hair was the same pale blonde as Jonas, but mildly curly, braided in random spots. Her dress was white, supernaturally standing out against the green of the tree line of the background. “My sister,” Jonas said softly from his side.

Which meant the young man to the left was Nathan. Ethan didn’t get the chance to take him in before the real one made an appearance before them. “Jonas, is that you?” the warm and quiet voice called as he rounded the corner.

The family resemblance was obvious, Ethan thought, when he saw Nathan. His hair was the long, pale blonde that seemed to fill they three of them, and was twisted into a braid that fell halfway down his back. The blue, blue eyes were there as well. He smiled kindly. “Jonas, who’s your friend.”

“Ethan,” Jonas said, right to the point. He laced his fingers with Ethan's and pulled him over to a soft green couch. “We need to talk, Nathan.” Nathan’s brows pulled together, but he sat with his legs crossed in front of them anyway. He pulled his braid over his shoulder, his gaze too kind and gentle for Ethan to keep looking at. Instead, he looked into his lap and refused to even glance at Nathan’s patient smile.

“Is something wrong?”

Jonas gripped his hand tightly and he forced himself to look up. Ethan pressed a small kiss onto his shoulder, as if to say  _ we can do this _ . Jonas steeled his nerve and said in a rush, “Look, I understand if you’re angry, I’d only expect it. But this is the truth and now we’ve got to deal with the reality.”

Nathan looked confused and Ethan felt for him. He was about to get what was probably life changing news and couldn’t do much about it. He wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

“I’m pregnant, Nathan.” Jonas tightened his grip on Ethan's and Ethan fought the urge to run from the house, to hide the two of them away somewhere they wouldn’t be found.

Nathan brought him back to the moment. “What?” he said, blinking.

“I’m going to have this child and there’s nothing you can say against it.” Jonas sounded like he was about to start crying. Hell,  _ Ethan _ was about to start crying himself.

“Are you sure?” Nathan asked, looking concerned. Jonas nodded, blinking away tears. “Okay.”

“What?” Jonas and Ethan blinked. Something about the approval of Nathan broke something in Jonas and he started crying. Even though he wrapped his arms around his happily crying boyfriend, Ethan couldn’t help think that there were too many tears for one day.

\-- -- --

Alice was born on a Sunday, in mid-March. The whole ordeal left Jonas shaking and weak, tears still falling down his face when he first cradled Alice in his arms. Ethan was tired himself, but ultimately happy to have been in the room the whole time.

Alice herself was small, her limbs frail. She was in the NICU for a two weeks, but the day they first brought her home to the little apartment where Jonas and Nathan lived. Ethan felt his heart flutter when he held her for the first time.

“She must have your hair,” Jonas teased him the morning after, as they held each other under the blankets on Jonas’ bed. Ethan could only laugh. Jonas grew weaker with every passing month, and when they graduated in late May, he reminded Ethan of the picture of his sister.

“I don’t think I’m going to make it,” Jonas confessed as he lightly rocked Alice to sleep. “I just don’t know anymore.”

Ethan shook his head and said, “It’s going to be fine.  _ We’re _ going to be fine.”

And they were. Two years down the line, Alice was a perfectly healthy toddler, Jonas was well and beat the snake digging into his life force, Ethan proposed, and was on his way to being a doctor like he’d always dreamed of. It wasn’t how they’d expect it to be, but life worked its way out.

Ethan wouldn’t give it up for the world.


	14. we haven't talked in a month

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a short and shitty poem because I'm having a bad night and I'm just really fucking sad

i miss you so much  
it doesn't even feel  
like a mood anymore.  
it makes me wonder though  
if it's coincidence  
or if you're avoiding me?  
i still remember your eyes  
but i miss your mouth the most  
because every conversation  
and careful affirmation  
boils into folded hands  
and cpr on foam and plastic  
where i found my heart.

_\--_ 15.7.2018 // _we haven't talked in a month_


End file.
